The Bluebell Consultant
by IvanCurios
Summary: AU: Sherlock, working as a star pole dancer at The Bluebell Gentlemen's Club - - a front for a non-police-affiliated anti-crime syndicate - - is in need of an assistant. John happens to be out of work.
1. Chapter 1

The lights were low, and John was already covering his ears because of the music. It wasn't until Mike jabbed him in the side with an elbow and mouthed _'Be a man'_ that he lowered his hands with a wince.

"Isn't that better, Johnny?" Mike called over the bass that seemed to be shaking the floor.

"Where are we? What is this?" John called back, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "There's glitter everywhere!"

A raunchy smile played across Mike's face as they ducked into a slightly quieter section of the venue. "The Bluebell," he said. "Finest establishment of its kind."

John frowned and didn't allow his eyes to wander, staring determinedly at his friend. "This is a strip club!" His voice was accusatory.

"A gentleman's club," Mike corrected. "And not only can we enjoy ourselves and celebrate your escape from working for the Ms, but I also have a bit of side business to do with a correspondent here."

John panicked, looking around to make sure nobody heard. "Mike!" he hissed. "Can we please not announce that in public?" He didn't fancy anyone knowing he worked for one of the largest crime syndicates in England, even if they were out to celebrate that he had been released from their services. Lord knew the Ms had enough enemies that even a former "employee" would be deemed a useful target… until they realised he hadn't been privy to any information other than who amongst the criminals had high cholesterol and which city's prince was a vegan for moral reasons.

"Oh, come on. You were only a doctor for them, anyway. Everything you did was legal." Mike waved away his concerns. "Besides, I got you the job with them in the first place, didn't I?"

John sighed just as the music quieted dramatically. Mike all but leapt over to a staircase, dragging John behind him. "You're going to want to see this," he told the doctor in a choked voice. "Best view is from above." A bouncer at the top of the stairs led the both of them to some plush leather seats that seemed drastically too expensive to be in a place like this overlooking the main dance floor. John cleared his throat uncomfortably and as he sat down, he decided quite resolutely that he would stare in the corner instead of taking advantage of whatever young thing would be undressing and flitting up and down the pole in the centre of the stage.

The lights dimmed, and the crowd burst into noisy applause. It seemed whomever would be performing was so well-known, no introduction was necessary. Sultry music began playing, and everyone suddenly fell silent. John had never seen such a well-behaved audience in his life. He glued his eyes to the corner of his room, and it was only in his peripheral vision that he saw a tall, lanky figure strut out in a thick overcoat and shoes that made solid 'clok!' sounds against the wood with each step. A small huff of delight from Mike at his side was what finally broke John's resolve, and his eyes rushed to see who it was that had captivated everyone. He gulped.

"Good evening, gentlemen," purred an impossibly deep voice. "I am the Consultant. What can I do for you today?"

John's eyes raked over the image of a man with a mess of dark, curly hair and brilliant eyes that glimmered in the spotlight. He couldn't control himself, and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees just as the Consultant unsheathed his impossibly long arms and tossed the coat behind him, revealing an utterly naked torso with muscles in spite of his lean figure and strong legs that were barely contained within some sort of stretchy trousers. "What am I doing?" John rasped to himself. He didn't even find blokes attractive! But still he stared.

"Let me get to know… you," the voice came again, sending tingles like electricity shooting from John's spine to his fingertips. Had he imagined that the Consultant was looking at him when he said that? John was certain he must have gotten caught up in fantasy until the dancer lifted himself up gracefully on the pole using only his arms, brought his legs over his head and somehow switched so he was holding on by his knees and spinning upside down, and crooned, "Doctor."

John felt as though his eyes might pop out of his head. He leaned as far back into his seat as he could, but there was no mistaking it: the dancer was making eye contact with him and nobody else. "Good lord, doesn't he get dizzy?" John weakly joked in a mere squeak, but Mike shushed him. The people below all murmured and seemed to be caught between trying to see whom the Consultant was addressing and watching the Consultant's routine.

"You've been a good boy, I see, but you work for some very bad men," the man continued speaking with great ease as though they were in a conversation, as though nobody were watching him perform a mind-blowing, stunning display of balance and physical strength. John shook his head almost imperceptibly. "Oh?" he said with surprise. "No, you don't work for them anymore, do you?" John bit his tongue-literally.

The music picked up, and the Consultant's routine did as well. He thrusted and spun and seemed to walk in mid air, shouting out minute details from John's life and landing on the stage each time with a hollow 'clok!' from the high heels that made him tower ever higher above the audience on the ground. The dancer finished and the entire club fell to thunderous applause. John watched him walk back behind the curtains all but glistening and tried not to notice how hard his heart was pounding.

"Jesus, Johnny!" panted Mike, mopping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. "I've never seen him do one that good. He must've really liked you!"

John coughed. "And what the hell is wrong with you?" he cried, feeling as though he'd finally come to his senses.

Mike faltered slightly. "Don't tell me you didn't like it!"

"Didn't li-" John started, catching himself quickly. "I meant that you told all of that personal stuff to me to that… that… that exotic dancer! You even told him who I worked for? That's low, just to get a rise out of me!"

"No!" Mike raised both his hands innocently. "I swear, John, he does this every night, new person every time, no information about them ahead of time. 'S why he's so popular, I think."

"You swear?" John breathed a sigh of relief.

Mike nodded. "You don't think I'd put one of my mates at risk just for that, really? Anyway, we have to go around back. I'll bet you get to meet him!" He winked outrageously before standing.

John followed, his heart leaping erratically in his chest. "I'm not into blokes, you know," he said lamely, more for himself than anything. Mike shrugged inoffensively as they descended the stairs and went through the side door leading to the dressing rooms.


	2. Chapter 2

When they entered the dressing rooms, John noticed one thing only: it was full of men. "You brought me to a gay strip club?" he accused.

"I thought you would enjoy it!" Mike protested. "You looked like you were having fun, at least."

"What is it? Tell me, Mike, what is it about me that screams 'Gay?' Oh, no offence-" John noticed several of the performers were giving them strange looks. "Mike, really, I want to know. Is it the fact that I've never shown interest in men? Or perhaps it's that I had three girlfriends in the past two years, and all those relationships lasted longer than six months apiece."

Mike stopped so abruptly that he very nearly crashed into him. He turned and looked John up and down once. "Hmph!" was all he said, as though that were explanation enough, then he turned and knocked on a door that read "Holmes" in golden letters.

John opened his mouth to argue, but then the door swung open and that same voice zapped up his spine, and his mouth went dry.

"Come in. The Doctor, too."

Mike ambled in and was shaking hands with the dancer as though he hadn't been drooling over him only moments ago. John sidled past the door, giving a nervous nod of his head when the dark-haired man raised an eyebrow in his direction. He was wearing a purple shirt now, though it seemed like the buttons were making every effort to close the cloth around his torso without bursting. John half-expected the buttons to go flying; the shirt really was much too small for the man. He looked at the floor. The dancer was barefoot. John let out a quiet sigh of relief.

"John Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes," Mike said between the two. "Sherlock, my good friend John."

"First time in a club, Doctor Watson?" Sherlock smirked.

"John, please. And y-yes. Though what you did there," John gestured inarticulately with his hand, "it was very good. Brilliant, really." He cleared his throat awkwardly. Sherlock gazed at him intensely, and he wondered briefly if he mightn't just slip right out the door and disappear forever.

"You really think so? So this is the one who needs a job?"

"Yes," Mike was responding. "Mighty fine mate of mine, and of course you've figured out about his past work, so I don't need to-"

Sherlock interrupted him and continued to stare at John. "Shut up, Mike. So you worked for the Ms."

John shifted his weight, pulling his hands out of his pockets but stuffing them right back in again. "Ah, yes. Yes. Just got let off today, in fact."

"Why?"

"They didn't say." John felt like he was being interrogated.

"Know secrets?"

"No, nothing at all."

Sherlock squinted at him, then turned back to Mike. "He'll do. I'll tell Mycroft we've got a new one. You'll be needing a new place, John?"

He jumped slightly. "Well, I-I don't really kno-"

"Of course you do, I don't know why I bothered asking. I have my eye on a nice little flat, and seeing as we'll be working very closely together in the future, it will do for convenience's sake. I'll text you the address, and… oh, I'm sorry, you're confused about something?" Sherlock cut himself off when he saw John raise a finger in the air as though he were about to ask a question.

"I'm sorry, but what is all this talk about 'He'll do' and needing a new flat and all this?" said John.

Sherlock nodded. "Ah. You're to be my new assistant. You do need a job, don't you?"

"Yes, but… assistant?" John was puzzled. What kind of stripper would need him as an assistant.

"More like a bodyguard, really," Mike corrected.

"A bodyguard!" John was alarmed.

Sherlock cast a glance Mike's way. "Adorable. He's a trusting one, isn't he?"

John bristled at this. "Excuse me, but I'm not going to be anyone's _anything_ until you explain to me exactly what's going on!" he demanded.

Sherlock gave him an amused smile. "Lestrade will get you sorted. Your prior experience with the Ms will be a plus. Doctor John Watson, welcome to the Division. Now I really must go. I've got a burglary to interrupt. I'll be certain to text you the address." With that, he put on the same coat he'd been dancing in and swept out of the room, leaving John more than a little mystified and Mike chuckling.

"Isn't he something?" Mike observed. "Come on, let's get you in to see Lestrade." He pushed John out the door and started leading him around to yet another part of the gentlemen's club.

"Who's Lestrade? Why won't anyone explain anything to me?" John grumped as they went. Mike ignored him. They rounded the corner to find a room labeled "Bluebell Management," and Mike rapped on the doorframe loudly before pushing the door open.

"I'll leave you here," Mike informed him. "You know I've got to get home, do some prep work for my classes tomorrow." John gave a snort, but wished him a good night anyway. Mike wasn't a professor in the traditional sense, though he made a big show of it. He taught runaways to be pickpockets and helped them find good positions in organised crime. It was street sense he taught, and he was fairly well-respected for it. Mike was neutral ground if there was such a thing when it came to the biggest crime syndicates of England and especially those of London.

John let him go and debated with himself for only a moment before poking his head around into the office. A young man who had mostly grey hair despite seeming to be in his late thirties was sitting back in a rolling chair, his feet up on a desk, and what appeared to be contracts clutched in his hands. He looked up and saw John.

"Oh, hello," he said pleasantly. "Who are you? Sherlock's?"

At a loss for words, John sort of nodded in confused assent. "Er, yeah. I suppose. John Watson. But…" he stammered.

"Lestrade, nice to meet you." He held out a hand, and John shook it. "Please, have a seat. I'll have to fill you in, it seems. Nice of Mike to find you on such short notice. And a doctor, too. You know anything about this?" He crossed back around to his desk and sat once more.

John shook his head, sitting on a wooden chair across from Lestrade. "No, I've only just been let go working as a doctor for the Ms." Upon seeing Lestrade's surprised look, he hastily added, "They didn't tell me anything, it was strictly medical. Sorry-what happened to Sherlock's last assistant?"

Lestrade shrugged nonchalantly. "He never had one. He's just been so insufferable lately, imposing on absolutely everyone. We had to ask Mike if he knew anyone who could stand him. But anyway, you'll be somewhat of an assistant to him. Have you heard of the Division before? No?

"The Division is something like the Ms, only we're the 'good guys.' Think of us as the anti-crime syndicate, but we operate outside of the confines of the police. Laws restrict everything, stop you from being able to act on a moment's notice. I'm a bit of a renegade myself, but I consider myself as working towards the exact same justice as I did when I was in the force-I'm just more effective now.

"Sherlock is… well, you've seen him. That's only half of what he does. He can read people like that, it's some sort of curse. Don't try to lie to him, I'll warn you right now. He's the one who can keep track of anything and everything happening in the city at once. He's also taken an interest in the Ms. Seems M him-or-herself has been sending mysteries to Sherlock lately. A direct challenge, wouldn't you know it? Crazy blighter never eats nor sleeps, and we can't be his babysitter! It's hard enough to run a legitimate gentleman's club as a front for the Division as is."

John frowned. "So now you have me."

Lestrade motioned at him. "Now we have you, assuming you'll have the job."

A voice from out in the hall called, "You found someone? Don't offer! Make him take it!" A woman zipped in, skidding slightly in her heels. She looked down at John, then back at Lestrade. "Greg, don't tell me you're letting him second guess himself," she huffed.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes at her. "I've got it covered, Donovan. I really need you running interference for the delivery right now. Sally, this is John Watson. John, this is Sally Donovan, who currently _has somewhere to be right now_."

She let out a great sigh. "If you don't take the job, I'll hunt you down," she promised John, who had the decency to look concerned.

"Donovan!"

"Alright, I'm going! Anyway, nice to meet you." And she left in a flurry of annoyance and clicking stiletto heels. Lestrade rolled his eyes after her before turning his focus back to John.

"So, tell me, are you interested?" he asked quite seriously.

John thought carefully. "I think that was probably the clearest sign to get out of here as fast as I can," he muttered. Lestrade looked dismayed before he continued, "but for some reason that's well beyond me, I'm going to say yes."

"Well, thank God for that," Lestrade grinned. "Let me just get a contract drawn up for you. I just hope he doesn't end up being too much for you. Loads of people around here want him out, and they really would have him out if it weren't for his exceptional skills." He pulled out some blank forms from a desk drawer and shoved them at John, giving him a pen so he could sign.

"What am I getting myself into?" he wondered out loud.

Lestrade smiled at him kindly. "Best not to worry about it. Welcome aboard. Hang around with an M, and we kill you."

"What?" John looked up, startled.

Lestrade nodded brightly. "Standard procedure. Make sure you sign AND date on the bottom there."

John dutifully did as he was told.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _Get updates on The Bluebell Consultant several days in advance on my blog (listed on my profile)_. _I'm going to aim to update it here about once per week, but on my blog I may update it as often as once every few days. And of course, I'm always looking for solid critiques and feedback, anonymous or not!_


	3. Chapter 3

The next day at seven o'clock in the morning, John received a text with an address: **221B Baker Street. 19:00. SH**. His head hurt, though he hadn't drunk, and he felt slightly resentful of his new colleague for waking him. He set his phone back on the nightstand and rolled over to try to grip onto a precious few more minutes of sleep. Just as he felt himself sinking into a blissful state between waking and dreaming, his phone buzzed noisily. John grabbed at it with little patience to reveal a second text: **Meet at the club in twenty. SH**.

"For god's sake!" he groaned. The Bluebell was easily fifteen minutes from his flat by taxi, which meant he had less than five minutes in which to become decently awake, not to mention get dressed and ready. "If it weren't for that bloody contract…"

Exactly nineteen minutes later, John arrived at the club and dashed in out of the rain to find Sherlock in his dressing room half nude. "Mister Holmes-oh, dear!" said John by way of announcement, spinning on his heel so he could turn his back to the man. "I am so sorry."

"It's Sherlock, and I don't mind. I am a sex worker, you know," Sherlock reminded him. "You don't need to avert your eyes."

"Yes, well, I will anyway," John sputtered quickly, not daring to glance back even a bit. He heard a deep chuckle and kept his eyes glued on the wall instead of on the man wearing nothing but what appeared to be a leather thong. "Why am I here?"

Sherlock shuffled behind him to grab something heavy. "You're a doctor."

"That's right-is someone hurt?"

"Hmm. Not yet." Sherlock paused. "John?"

"Yes? …yes?" John received no answer. "Yes, Sherlo-oh, god." He had turned his head to see why he wasn't getting a response. Sherlock was standing in front of a full-length mirror, still in the same state of undress save the addition of thigh-high leather boots, shifting his weight from one foot to the other with his hand tucked under his chin, examining his reflection.

"What do you think, not enough?" murmured Sherlock. "I've got red ones in the trunk."

"F-for dancing?" John gulped and stared at the spiked heels. "This early in the morning? You need a doctor for that?"

Sherlock turned to him with an amazed look. "Oh, don't be stupid! We've got a client."

John jumped. "We? Oh, no, I'm not… I don't… I really couldn't-" He waved a hand aimlessly but didn't manage to explain himself too well. Sherlock gave him a very derisive smirk and turned back to the mirror.

"Of course you're not. Try to keep up, will you? I've got a client, and you're here to be sure he doesn't get too injured. We suspect he's an M, and the best way to get him to talk is with a bit of encouragement. Nothing too exciting," he quickly explained.

"But if he's an M, and I worked for the Ms, what if he knows me?" John worried. He didn't much care to be outed to the Ms as working for the Division-what seemed to be the crime syndicate's greatest enemy, if he'd understood Lestrade correctly.

Sherlock pulled black, satin opera gloves over his arms delicately. "You'll be behind a two-way mirror. Try not to enjoy yourself too much," he replied dryly. "Off you go. Door C in the left corridor. Don't stop us unless his life is in danger."

John allowed himself to be shooed from the room before walking down the hall and taking a left. Lestrade had given him a brief tour, so he knew that he was walking through the employee entrance to the private rooms. He found Door C and opened it, squeezing into an incredibly thin room with a single barstool and a mirror looking into a private room. He sat, tapping his hands quietly on his legs as he waited.

Soon a short, squat man was ushered in and was made to wait on the plush bed in the centre of the room. John recognised him, which meant he was almost definitely an M. He made a mental note to inform Sherlock. The other door opened, and it seemed the devil himself stalked in, eliciting a sharp inhale from both the client and John. Sherlock hadn't changed his outfit after chasing John from his room, but now he came armed with an array of toys that looked more like weapons than instruments of pleasure.

"Hello, Sir," the man said. Sherlock lobbed a heavy, wooden bat at his head, and he didn't miss. John nearly jumped up in alarm when he saw it connect with the client's temple, but he merely held a hand to the point of contact, wincing. Even though he'd never in his life witnessed any sort of scenario like this, he was fairly certain that Sherlock's approach was _unconventional_ at best.

"You'll speak only when instructed. Is that clear?" he spat. The man didn't dare look up. "Speak!" Sherlock barked.

"Yes, Sir!"

Sherlock didn't even allow him a moment to recover before continuing in a silky voice, "Mister Clarence, tell me: have you behaved since your last visit?" Clarence seemed to bite back a reply. Sherlock swooped in next to him, dropping his armful of toys on the bed and licking his ear-John grit his teeth in what he felt must surely have been disgust.

"You're a fast learner. I like that," he purred to Clarence. "Speak."

"I've been so naughty, Sir!" Clarence choked out.

Sherlock pulled away from him, holding up a plastic rod with a hand shape at the end of it. "I see. I'll have to punish you, you know. You must atone for your… sins," he purred. "Take off that jacket and tell me, Mister Clarence, whom did you see the last time you visited the Bluebell?"

John looked on with a curious sense of revulsion and intrigue as the client undressed and Sherlock quite literally booted him around as though he were a piece of rubbish on the street. Sherlock asked him a great deal of questions, but the man's answers were more evasive than not. Once he was entirely naked and kneeling on the bed with the side of his face pressed into the mattresses by Sherlock's foot, the situation became markedly more heated.

"What have you done, you awful child?" Sherlock scolded. He smacked him once again with the plastic rod, which made a loud clapping noise and left a welt on his right buttock. "Speak!"

Clarence let out a moan. "I-I've killed a woman, Sir." He was rewarded with another spank, but Sherlock suddenly pulled away and stepped off the bed.

"Is that all? Speak."

"Yes, Sir, but it was gruesome," whimpered the man, who remained in the same position, clearly hoping for more torment. "I tortured her, really."

Sherlock pulled a many-tongued whip from the pile of toys. "Oh." He sounded disappointed. "They told me you'd done something truly awful. But this? Child's play. You called and begged for me on the phone, they said. 'I need the Consultant!' you simpered to the scheduler. Well, here I am, and you're wasting my time." He let out a loud sniff.

John gaped in horror as the man insisted that how he'd murdered the woman really was despicable and deserving of punishment, but Sherlock kept treating him as a fool, refusing to lay a finger on him-which evidently was what he wanted.

Finally, Sherlock wheeled around and shouted, "Liar! I don't punish lies here, and I don't waste my time with criminal pretenders like yourself. Now unless you've done something truly heinous, I want you out. Speak!" He pulled back his hand with the whip in it, preparing it for a wicked blow.

Clarence was practically salivating, sitting up on the bed at this point, his eyes trained on the whip. "Yes! Yes! I lied, Sir! But only because I may not reveal what I've done!"

A frightening crack filled the room, and blood started to flow from the gashes left across Clarence's torso. He cried out, too, in a way that made John shiver violently, but Sherlock silenced him. "That was only a taste of what's to come," he growled. "Now be good and tell the Consultant what you've done, Mister Clarence, or I'll see to it you never have another sin to absolve in this life. Speak, damn you!" He roughly kicked Clarence in the chest, pushing him back on the bed and grinding the pointed heel into one of the fresh wounds on his chest.

John watched in complete horror as the client writhed and made pleasurable sounds before a steady stream of confessions tumbled from his lips, and the confessions continued even once Sherlock tired of whipping his front and turned him onto his stomach so he could whip his pasty, white back, too. John couldn't tell if the scene in front of him was making him ill or if it was the man's recounting of his misdeeds, which ranged from making deliveries for 'some criminals'-surely the Ms, John thought-to blackmail, poison, and heinous murder. John felt more than a little green by the time Sherlock decided he was through, and the blood spatters on the mirror weren't helping any.

"Your time is up, Mister Clarence," Sherlock huffed. "And do try to behave from now on." Clarence nodded weakly, and Sherlock strode out of the room and directly to see John. He shut the door to the tiny room and glanced at his client, who could do nothing but lay on the bed and catch his breath. "He won't lose enough blood to die?"

John swallowed with difficulty. "Ah, er, no, I don't believe so," he said.

Sherlock frowned. "Oh, well. Do you recognise him?"

"He's definitely with the Ms…" He smiled helplessly, fighting the churning in his gut. "And I have to admit his injuries make a lot more sense now."

Sherlock grinned. "Excellent! With your witness, I'll have a hit put on him, and he'll be gone by noon. I must admit, he was much easier than I anticipated." He looked down at his chest, which was covered with more than just blood. "Semen," he remarked. "How unfortunate, this means I'll have to shower before speaking with Lestrade."

And without another word, he zipped out of the observation room, leaving behind him a trail of heeled bootprints in blood. John glanced back at Clarence, who was whimpering as he dressed. Still, he seemed considerably less shaken than John felt. It wasn't a pity he'd be assassinated by lunch. John quietly made his way to Lestrade's office and confirmed Clarence's affiliation with the Ms, then excused himself. He wondered if he'd be able to eat at all that day.

"Maybe that's how Sherlock stays so thin?" he mused, but he quickly banished that idea. He'd seem the gleam in his colleague's eyes: Sherlock had enjoyed himself thoroughly. John shook his head as he hailed a cab. "And I'm meant to live with that man?"


	4. Chapter 4

At precisely seven o'clock that evening, John crossed the street to meet Sherlock as he strode up to the door of 221B Baker Street. He was dressed nicely enough in dark slacks and a blue scarf tucked neatly into a long, black wool coat that made him look even taller and more slender than he did in his work clothes… that was, if one could even call his outfits 'clothes' to begin with.

"John," Sherlock greeted him. His voice was light, almost pleasant.

"Ah, nice little café here," John responded, not quite daring to ask him how the rest of his day went. "Nice neighborhood, seems a little expensive."

But he didn't appear to be listening. He rang the buzzer. "The landlady is Mrs. Hudson. She owes me a favour, so I think with the two of us we should more than be able to afford the rent. Central location, close to work."

"She owes you a favour?" The words leapt out of John's mouth before he could stop them.

A smile played on Sherlock's lips. "Her husband was implicated in a sex trafficking scandal that I'd also been working on."

"So you set her husband free?"

Sherlock's grin widened as his eyes danced. "I got him life." When John's only response was a stare, Sherlock clarified, "Overseas, too. No chance of parole."

Before John had a chance to reply, the green door opened, and an older woman was hugging Sherlock tightly. He felt like his legs had turned to stone at the sight of Sherlock willingly, and perhaps even more shockingly, _happily_ embracing Mrs. Hudson threw his perception of the man even more into question. This Sherlock seemed almost human, save the part where only seconds ago he implied having sent a man of dubious guilt to prison for life.

"Well, come on in, show your… your friend around," she was saying in a sweet voice. Sherlock led the way, skipping up the stairs with undue excitement, and Mrs. Hudson in her purple dress followed behind them at a distance.

John stepped into the flat and couldn't help his eyebrows raising in approval. It really was a lovely place, quiet enough, large windows and lots of sunlight. He blinked spots out of his eyes from the transition from dark stairwell to bright living room, and that's when he saw the _stuff_. At first, he thought it might have been left over from a previous tenant, but as Sherlock busied himself moving a few things around to his liking (all whilst keeping a keen eye on John), he realised that he had already effectively moved in. Out of the corner of open boxes peeked the edges of some of the props Sherlock kept in his dressing room at the club, though John refused to imagine why. A few riding crops were displayed on the wall, and all flat surfaces were covered in newspapers and journal clippings. And books. Walls of shelves and stacks of books made the walking space more like a maze than not.

Mrs. Hudson shuffled in. "What do you think, Dr. Watson?"

He nodded, his eye caught on a box that seemed to be filled with nothing but rope and scarves, wrinkling his brow at the sight. "It's very, erm, very good. Seems like it will do quite nicely."

Her gaze followed his until she saw the open box as well. "Well, there is a second bedroom upstairs. If you'll be needing two, that is."

John thought he heard Sherlock stifle a laugh, but he frowned deeply at the insinuation. "Of course we'll be needing two."

Her lips, purple to match her dress perfectly, twisted into a knowing smile. "That's all right, just try to keep it down past midnight." She nodded sweetly, and John felt queasy at her nonjudgmental assumption. She went on about some neighbours, but he didn't listen.

Sherlock swooped in from the kitchen to stand between them with a reckless smile. "We'll take it," he said as though he hadn't already made the decision and moved in before John arrived. Her face scrunched up in delight.

"Ooh, I'll just let you boys settle in now," she said, giving Sherlock's arm a squeeze as she passed by him and into another room. "You really must do something about these books, Sherlock." He didn't answer her.

"Well, are you-" Sherlock began, pausing when he noticed his new assistant was staring at the wall of whips. He cleared his throat. "Ah, feel free to make use of any of these as you feel fit," he said, pointedly fixing his gaze away from John.

"What? No! God, no! I don't… I'm not… I don't want to use those!" he objected in a panic. He hoped desperately that the whips would have been for show, not for _personal use. _God only knew what would be happening in the flat-what if Sherlock brought clients home?

But Sherlock didn't acknowledge him. He turned his back to John then, picking up a pile of photos and police criminal reports and shuffling through them.

John sank into an armchair that was far softer than he had expected. "You've already moved in," he noted in an attempt to dissipate the awkwardness in the room. Sherlock turned to him with a bored expression.

"How astute of you."

John huffed. There was no way Sherlock could have missed the real meaning of what he said. "I hadn't even seen the place, much less said, 'Yes,' to it, and you've moved in," he said again.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly. "You don't like it?"

"I do."

"Then where's the problem?" Sherlock replied too quickly, returning his attention to the papers.

"The problem is that you didn't ask. You just… you just decided! Decided which flat, what location, hell, even decorating," John said in a louder voice. "I mean, if I'm meant to be living here, shouldn't I have a say?" Sherlock was either oblivious, or he was challenging him.

"But you said you liked the flat."

"I do like the flat, that's not th-" John tried to say, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Then there's no problem."

John stood with a sigh, fighting back the urge to yell. "Yes. Fine. Just… can you ask before you make decisions for me in the future?" When Sherlock didn't respond, instead idly staring at a photograph of a fierce-looking man, John shook his head. "I'm going back to my place now. I'll need to get my things to move in," he announced. Sherlock didn't move or even look up at him.

"Alright, then," he murmured to himself. He made his way to the staircase and down to the street. Sherlock watched him go out of the corner of his eye.


End file.
